


flashpoint

by riverbed



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Discipline, Feelings, Fighting, Jealousy, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Protectiveness, Punishment, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:44:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverbed/pseuds/riverbed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>john needs something that burns him to flicker out before he can move on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flashpoint

**Author's Note:**

> this is a weird one. it was inspired, originally, by [this prompt](https://ham-kink.dreamwidth.org/937.html?thread=12969#cmt12969), but as usual it turned out to be. not what i expected.  
> going in, i had wanted this to be pure protective fatherly washington fawning over alexander, and there is a bit of that, but as it stands this is washington/laurens with a non-erotic discipline arrangement. warnings for that being referenced but not really detailed.
> 
> written past my bedtime and i didn't even reread it, let alone let anyone beta, though in the beginning [fullmetalpetticoat](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fullmetalpetticoat/pseuds/fullmetalpetticoat) did encourage me, as she does. there's a good old-fashioned bloody-knuckled fisticuffs at the beginning, and hamilton fights dirty. godspeed.

The altercation breaks out as if it’s another spark from the fire, but that is Alexander in a nutshell.

One minute the campfire is surrounded by friendly soldiers laughing raucously, the next Alexander has landed a punch to a man’s kidney, and his friend is lunging for John’s knees to take him down, and another still is gripping Alexander by the hair to steady his target as he lands a punch square on Hamilton’s nose. Hamilton staggers back as he is released, blood pouring down his face. He grins, a feral little glint of teeth that John shakes at even from his position on the ground. Hamilton rears back and throws himself forward, taking the man down with his full body weight, landing atop him and shoving his head back into the dirt.

The first man, the man who had made the offending comment about their General, and whose abdomen will no doubt be sore for days, straightens up and goes for Alex, now, yanking his hair back and scrabbling with his other hand for purchase around his throat. John panics when he realizes what he’s doing, but he can’t move with his leverage taken by the larger soldier on top of him. The man has his shoulders pinned, his hips straddled. Laurens is effectively out of commission. And just as the hand closes around Hamilton’s throat, just as his eyes go wide with alarm and the other man gets his shirt in two fists to keep him static, the shot rings out, followed by utter, heavy silence.

The campfire crackles. Nobody moves. Hamilton’s hair is still in his adversary’s vise, John’s own man remains with his weight on him. It crosses his mind that he could take advantage of this situation, that he could perhaps wriggle out in the man’s stunned state, but the potent anxiety in the air is so thick that he finds himself swimming through the same fog to get a handhold on the thought. John can’t see from his position, and Alexander is facing the same way, but the look on the face of the soldier who looms over him is one of pure horror, and John can guess what that means.

Slowly, slowly, the man hoists himself off of Laurens and stands, and Alexander’s attackers do the same, and John sees Alexander wince as his braid is released. The ribbon falls to the ground. He stands and turns, glaring sidelong at their drinking companions, the one who’d grabbed him in particular. Then he looks straight at Washington, even as the others - John included - shuffle and stare at their feet under the heat of his eyes.

“What is this?” Washington asks simply, lowering his gun from the air. He’s calm, the sort of calm that’s a warning; when Washington’s voice booms through camp all is well, for he is passionate and a practiced orator. It’s when his voice is low, rumbling, that the men know to steer clear of his ire. Alexander levels their eye contact, swallows for confidence and his Adam’s apple bobs.

His voice is cool when he speaks. “There were insinuations about your character, Sir,” he says, and John winces. Alexander’s words come too easy, and he dresses nothing up, embellishes almost never. The truth is laid bare as it floats off his capable tongue, as elegant as its basest form can be, and yet the explanation seems to satisfy the General, who nods and holsters his pistol after rolling the barrel along his palm to ensure it has cooled. John’s mind reels for a moment at the significance of Washington actually having fired a shot. They are in Trouble, no emphasis too large. He gulps involuntarily, something he cannot remember doing since having been a child under his governess’ strict eye.

Washington looks to each of them in turn, seeking affirmation. John is last in the line they have arranged themselves in, and he does his best not to look away as Washington says, “And you, Laurens? Is this the event that transpired?”

John is determined to outdo their fellow soldiers’ weakness. Rather than nod in shame, he steadies his voice, tells Washington “Yes” aloud.

Washington nods again, looking off into the trees as if deep in thought. They all relax minutely free from his scrutiny; John feels his shoulders roll back and winces as it emphasizes a deep crick from being pinned so harshly to the hard dirt.

It is a few minutes before Washington speaks again. When he does, it is positively quiet, all practiced poise. “You boys know,” he begins, carefully, “that I do not appreciate belittling. Of any man in this camp, or in this army.” He does not single anyone out - as if he doesn’t know who said what. John scoffs lightly, under his breath. Washington continues. “I would hope you also recognize that I do not need defending.” He does not turn his head back to look at them even now, and John can feel the shame creep up his neck and into his face, as forcefully as he has tried to push it down. Heat burns his cheeks and he sees Hamilton antsy to meet Washington’s gaze, hopping back and forth between his feet. He craves validation as he always does from this man who he respects so deeply. John does, too, but he at least has the decency to not vie for it visibly, in mixed company.

Washington turns on his heel. The moonlight silhouettes his tall frame dramatically. “Time to call it a night, boys,” he says, and it is - unmistakably - an order. He starts to walk back into camp. “Hamilton! Laurens!” he barks. “Follow me.” And John bristles. It’s almost an afterthought.

He gathers his rucksack (and Hamilton’s shoulder bag, for he has left it behind in his haste to obey) and hurries after his General, who says nothing the entire trek to his tent on the other side of the camp. The tang of disappointment is palpable in the air, and John does his best to keep up, Washington’s long legs and the sheer force of Hamilton’s adrenaline carrying them at a much quicker pace than his own natural gait allows.

They reach Washington’s private quarters and Hamilton sits uninvited at his desk. Washington doesn’t even toss him an exasperated look. John hovers in the entryway, unsure and embarrassed at Alexander’s nonchalance.

Washington crosses to his basin, wets a washrag with a small splash and comes up with his hand soaked to the cuff. An immaculate man, in his impeccably pressed uniform even more imposing. John fiddles with his collar, studies the wrinkled state of Hamilton’s shirt under his waistcoat. He feels suddenly self-conscious.

Washington crosses the room to the desk and sits upon it, above Alexander. Casual. John shifts as he presses the lukewarm cloth to Alexander’s face, dabbing the drying blood from his lip and chin. Alexander flinches, his face likely tender from the beating. He looks up at Washington, eyes wide. John feels as if he has walked in on something.

He goes white with sick when Washington beckons him closer, he’s sure of it. “Over here, Laurens,” he says, his back still to him. John shuffles on wary feet to the desk. At a loss, he does the only thing he can think of - he kneels before it, before Washington. And in front of Alexander, who strains his eyes to look at him, keeping his face obediently in place for Washington’s care.

Washington squeezes the rag, balls his fist. The blood runs lighter diluted with water, down his own forearm to stain his rolled-up, starched sleeve. John feels a sudden pang of renewed guilt at having disturbed him from his leisure time - the realization hits him that Washington had shown up to their brawl without his waistcoat or jacket.

Washington’s hand, seemingly drawn to his nerves, is placed in his hair. He feels the grease and dirt work its way out under his fingers, and then Washington drags his nails down his scalp. John recoils only briefly, then he gets his senses under control, pushes back into the pain. Alexander’s eyes are alert, his brows raised. He watches John closely. John shivers.

“You are both invaluable to me, and I fear you grow too comfortable with that arrangement,” Washington chides. Alexander tilts his head in question, looking back to Washington, and John almost laughs - that Hamilton can’t imagine anything else now he’s secured his position as one of Washington’s closest aides is typical. That he thinks he’s going to let them get away with such a transgression is even more fitting. John recalls the last time he’d fucked up, a bit before Hamilton had come to them - getting too drunk while in town, staggering back to camp and mouthing off. Washington had waited till morning, had slapped him hard across the face and left him reeling on his cot to let it sink in. He’d sent for him in the afternoon, had talked to him, let him air his frustrations and shortcomings - but John still remembered the sting of that first slap, as if it were the turning of a new leaf, a marked change in the seasons. Summer to winter. Incongruous to the actual ways of the world, stark and forcing his senses to flood.

Since then he has toed the line, but Hamilton has his influence.

He knows Hamilton has been called to this tent before for similar reasons. He hadn’t before tonight, but he’d seen it in the way Hamilton had stomped to their destination, heavy footfalls betraying his anticipation. Makes sense that he would itch for a release, an excuse to stop his mind’s work and just take orders. John sees the way he jumps at orders.

Suddenly his mind is working overtime, gears turning and turning and trying to make sense of the dynamic here. Is he meant to hold Alex down? Will he be made to stand in the corner and listen, anticipating? He wills his thoughts to silence, sends up one final prayer and then waits. He can be patient. He can be grateful. Washington is gracious, after all. And all their cards have been on this table before. For the most part, they all know what to expect.

Washington rises, and John’s posture slumps without the support of his hand or his thigh beneath him. He turns, hoists Alexander onto the desk where he had sat. Runs his hand across his bruised cheek, the imprint of a knuckle just to the left of his nose. “Not tonight,” Washington says quietly, and John is sure it’s to him. He gets a sudden burst of clarity and realizes the air filling the room is not what he thought it was - examined more closely, there’s a softness to it. Washington is poring over his injured young counterpart like he’s delicate, the washcloth, the reverent fingers, and Alexander glows under the treatment. John’s heart drops - he craves this, needs it to move on. He needs the reassurance, the - his stomach flips - the attention.

Suddenly there is a third spoke throwing off their dynamic. Not for the first time, John feels a strange resentment course through him, jealousy thrumming in his chest. And he immediately feels guilty. Hamilton is his best friend, his closest confidant. The trust between them built so quickly and remains intense and he often finds himself just observing Hamilton with affection, amusement, but now this feeling he can’t wrap his head around is there pounding his heart like a threat and Washington is touching Hamilton and not him and Laurens flounders in his own head. His face is burning again, this time with the focus of fever, and his vision is blurred in rage and he sees red. He has to move, has to run, has to -

Washington’s hand is back on his head. His hair feels dirty. Sweat beads down his neck. The threads of his uniform are filled with smoke from the earlier fire and as Washington’s hand runs through his hair he feels sated, but ashamed; ashamed of his appearance, of his behavior, of his feelings. He wants to go back to normal. But he has to be given the chance.

He stays behind when Washington sends Alexander away. Takes a page from his book, sits defiantly in his chair, taps his foot anxiously until he hears Alexander’s footfalls drift away from the tent, back toward their own. He’s calm now; he’s ready to face this. He takes a deep breath in through his nose, exhales slowly. Raises his chin to meet Washington’s eyes.

“What’s troubling you, my boy?” he inquires, slouching on the desk where he’d sat to clean Alexander’s face. John is scandalized at the image of Washington so taken apart - he looks exhausted, unprepared. He is suddenly unsure of what to say. He’d had a whole speech planned, but it all feels - inappropriate, now, in this moment of rare quiet between them.

He sighs, settles. “There’s so much going on, Sir. The fight - it was too much of an outlet. Scared me. I had been hoping…”

Washington stops him. “I know,” he says. “Hamilton is too fragile for… the things we share.” He chooses his words carefully, smiles down at John knowingly.

John halts at that. He had been so sure. “I - what do you -” he stammers. Alexander’s brashness, his disregard.

“We talk. I give him wine. At times he has need to be silent, and I enforce that. Never do I strike him.” He looks pointedly at where John knows the riding crop is leaning on the wall. John doesn’t follow his gaze.

“I think I need to talk.” It’s true - the stress is getting to him; the war is coming to a head. He receives dozens of pieces of correspondence a day and dutifully works through all of it, responds to what needs response, delegates what he is assigned to. Through gritted teeth he works with other officers whose manner turns his moods foul. He watches Hamilton rise and hone and fights the very small but very real glimmer of resentment over nothing, he tells himself it’s nothing. He feels the bitterness of bile rising in his throat and wants to vomit. Everything is moving rapidly even the room and he wants a moment, just a moment, of respite.

He has to talk, but he can’t find words.

Washington rises silently, and John is reminded that he was once not a commander but a foot soldier, like him rising through the ranks on hard-earned pain and grit. His age is no hinderance to him, publicly, for his persona is larger than life, godlike. A deity on high. But in private John sees the bits of resolve wear at the corners of his eyes. His hands. They lay upon him now, weight a comfort in and of itself, working his shoulders.

John drifts off as his muscles fight the release. He vaguely registers Washington pulling him to his feet, stripping him down, tucking him into his own cot.

Then the rustle of papers and creak of the chair and they settle in comfortable quiet for the evening. John’s mind is blissfully silent and he falls asleep almost immediately. The need to talk drifts away with his consciousness.


End file.
